Daughter of the East
by Francienyc
Summary: Lucy must decide whether she can keep her silence about Narnia when she is asked to make an account of herself.


_Daughter of the East_

_A/N: The title, and the quote at the beginning are translated (by myself) from the song "Une fille de l'Est" by the French singer Patricia Kaas. The song is absolutely beautiful, and it totally makes me think of Lucy once she's returned from Narnia. If you'd like to read my translation of the lyrics (or the French words, if you're a Francophone) feel free to message me._

_Also, in this story I build on facts I created in the story "Caspian's Queen." You don't need to have read that story to understand what's going on here, but if you think "Wait—that never happened in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" now you know why. Also, I love a good review, so if you want to take a peek at that story, I'd be thrilled to the tips of my toes, providing you haven't already read it.

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"**I am of those worthy people/ Upright in their silence/ Where people keep their word, where a promise has a meaning**

**And if you know how to understand/ Who I am when I love or when I hate/I will offer you the honest, simple, and sincere love/ Of a daughter of the East."**

Lucy was sitting at her dormitory window very late one night with _Romeo and Juliet_ spread open in her lap. She had a reading due the next day, but while Lucy was very truthful and brave and loyal, she was not always particularly timely when it came to completing her assignments for school. She had thrown a blanket over the desk lamp so that the light didn't bother Margie, who was asleep in the next bed with all her homework completed.

The problem was the essay. Mr. Herd had set the fourth year girls an essay which was supposed to be about something important that had happened to each of them. Lucy could of course think of lots of important things, from her coronation in the castle by the sea to being called back with her brothers and sister years later to save the country once more to sailing to the end of the world. Of course she couldn't write about any of these things because they had all taken place in Narnia and no one would believe her if she said she was a queen. And Mr. Herd had been very insistent on this essay being autobiographical. He was extremely particular about his assignments, strangely so. Susan had warned her about this.

She had spent the whole weekend walking in the woods on the school grounds, mulling the problem over. The Professor had said they ought not to say anything about their adventures in Narnia. Susan was only too happy to comply, and Peter also counseled silence. Lucy saw why—people would think all four of them mad if they went on about being kings and queens, but at the same time she thought that was a risk she had a duty to take. Lots of great people were considered mad in their own time, and they were often the visionaries. Besides, she often thought that if all the world thought her mad save one person who believed about Aslan everything would be worth it.

Even though she was bursting to tell everyone she met about Narnia, she kept her thoughts inside. That was the agreement she had made with Peter and Susan and Edmund. The thing was no one had ever asked before. If someone asked her, wasn't that different? Could she really keep quiet about Narnia when called on to make an account of who she was and what she'd done?

She had walked and walked, haunting the corner of the woods that most reminded her of the Western Woods near the Beavers' house. She walked and thought, and even by Sunday teatime she had no answer and all her assignments to complete. Thus she was sitting awake at her window well after curfew with _Romeo and Juliet_.

This was the first time she had to read anything by Shakespeare, and if Peter and Edmund raved about it so much, she was determined to like it too. Only they talked about different plays. Edmund could debate with himself for hours over _Julius Caesar_ and all its questions of treachery and loyalty, while Peter got a light in his eyes ever time he mentioned _Henry V_ and its definitions of kingship. Lucy wanted to like _Romeo and Juliet_, but he was finding it awfully hard. She loved Mercutio's speech "O, I see Queen Mab hath been with thee," because she could see Edmund saying it with such a relish. But then Shakespeare forgot his best character and gave the play over to the two lovers. When Margie read the balcony scene she had sighed the whole evening. Lucy was looking forward to reading it but found she was disappointed when she got there. All of Romeo's sighing and cries of "O! That I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek" was a bit much, really.

Anyway, that sort of overdone poetry was exactly what all her boyish suitors recited to her when she was Queen in Narnia. She was the sun and Susan was the moon, and didn't the sun outshine the moon? This was both melodramatic and untrue, as everyone knew Susan was prettier. That was fine. In the end she didn't care for poetry anyway. She didn't want pretty words, she wanted someone who understood her. "Who makes me feel something real," she murmured, echoing the words Caspian had said to her on board the _Dawn Treader_.

She sighed and pushed the window open, breathing in the sharp night air. She wondered if it was autumn in Narnia and if the _Dawn Treader_ had finished its homeward voyage. She continued to think about Caspian, something she did quite often these days. Was he alive and still young? Did he return to find the three lords awake? Had he married the star's daughter? She thought that this would be a good idea since the girl had seemed so serious and lonely. Lucy knew Caspian could make her laugh. She herself had always felt happier around Caspian. They had stayed up together so often, just the two of them. They named the constellations together. And in those moments where she couldn't quite find the words for what she was thinking, Caspian would take her hand and look at her in such a way that she knew he didn't just understand, he was feeling the same thing. Mr. Tumnus had been her first Narnian friend, but now she had to admit that Caspian was her best friend. He had the same stars in his eyes.

Lucy sighed and turned back to the book. Romeo had just killed Juliet's cousin Tybaled and lamented "O, I am Fortune's fool!" which made Lucy snort with derision. "That's hardly fair, blaming it on Fortune when it's all your own fault." She looked up quickly to make sure Margie was still asleep. She had the habit of talking out loud to books because she got so involved in them. Everyone thought this was odd, especially Susan, so she tried to make sure she was alone when reading. Unless Eustace was around—her reactions usually piqued his interest. She liked to share what she was reading since he was only just getting to know stories in the proper sense.

Eustace…Caspian…she couldn't stop thinking about the _Dawn Treader_. She gave up Shakespeare as a bad job and took out some stationary so she could start a letter to Edmund. It was already well past midnight, but Lucy found she could get by with much less sleep since she got back from Narnia. Perhaps the effects of drinking light were still on her. The essay niggled the back of her mind, but she reasoned that she'd never be able to write it if she was still thinking about Narnia.

She began by rereading his last. The thing about Edmund was that she had to read his letters several times because there was so much in between the lines. She had learned this their first time in Narnia, and she had become very practiced at decoding Edmund. For instance, she could tell that he was lonely at school without Peter there. She wondered briefly if she would feel the same after Susan graduated when they didn't spend that much time together anyway. She made up her mind to send her brother some good cheer instead of complaining, though she thought she might reminisce about the _Dawn Treader_ just a little. And nag at him again to tell her what on earth Caspian had said when she was upstairs in Coriakin's house. He never would say, and she was beginning to feel like it was some delicious secret.

The next thing she knew, she woke up with her half finished letter to Edmund stuck to her face. She looked at the sky and saw that it was almost morning and then glanced frantically at the clock for confirmation of this. Indeed, breakfast was in just two and a half hours. And the essay wasn't done and Mr. Herd was such a stickler.

There was nothing for it. She drew out a fresh piece of paper and started to transcribe her dream, really a memory which she relived often in dreams. Aslan had called her and Eustace and Edmund off the _Dawn Treader_ to the edge of the world with Reepicheep. But no, she couldn't begin there. That wouldn't make any sense. She started with what it was like to say goodbye to Caspian. That was the important moment, anyway. How his eyes, normally so clear, were clouded with tears. How close he held her, and how she was reminded one last time how joyful she felt with him. He had kissed her forehead tenderly, in a way that made her breath catch, and when she looked into his eyes she saw the beginning of a thousand different dreams with him. That was why she had kissed him.

She wrote all of this as best she could, careful to omit any mentions of kings or the End of the World or the fact that Reepicheep was a Talking Mouse. She had tears in her eyes as she wrote, and she barely noticed when Margie got up with a great yawn and shuffled out of the room with her towel and toothbrush. When she had finished, remembering the tears streaming down Caspian's cheek as she looked up into his face, she laid her head down on her arms and wept.

"Oh Aslan," she whispered through her tears, "I know—I know you sent us back for a reason. I know we have to become closer to this world, because you want us to. But oh—I can't bear it."

"Who's Aslan?" Margie sniffed, coming back in. "And why on earth are you crying?"

Lucy wanted to talk to her—she ached to talk to anyone who would listen. But as she looked up into Margie's eyes, she saw they were dull, and she remembered that Margie did not have much of an imagination, or a capacity to believe. "I'm alright," she said. "I'm just a little homesick."


End file.
